


What Makes a King

by riteinthefeels



Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M, Light Bondage, S&M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-20
Updated: 2012-12-20
Packaged: 2017-12-05 11:01:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/722366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/riteinthefeels/pseuds/riteinthefeels
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One-shot PWP of Morrigan's ritual.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Makes a King

**Author's Note:**

> The dialogue up until the actual sex is taken directly from the PS3 version of Dragon Age: Origins. All non-dialogue and everything past scene 3 is my original work.

                Riordan's words echoed in Alistair's head. _The essence of the Archdemon is destroyed… and so is the Grey Warden._ Standing in the dim corridor, he tried to wrap his mind around the task arriving with the dawn, but it all felt so surreal. Even after the Joining ceremony of the Grey Wardens, honing his skills on the training grounds, and the countless darkspawn he had slaughtered, he still hoped to wake from this nightmare. Had he not learned to let go of expectation, he would have felt sure he was dreaming.

                A chaste kiss from his betrothed, Elissa, brought him back to reality. They were in Arl Eamon's castle, where he had grown up. Eamon had raised the bastard son of King Maric, pitying the child, orphaned at birth. Strange how the eyes of a man see things the eyes of a boy miss. Strange how the eyes of a boy conjure images that become lost in time. Elissa gazed at her fair-haired companion, her mind set to what they must do, but was that fear in her eyes? This glorious noblewoman, who had survived, unwavering, through hundreds of perils at his side, was now shaken by the knowledge that one of them must die tomorrow.

                Fear enveloped him at seeing his pillar unnerved, lined with a glimmer of hope and relief. If the dusky brunette took the situation as seriously as it warranted, rather than charging in head first as she was wont to do, at least she may make it through. The Orlesian elder Warden, Riordan, would try to capture the Arch Demon's spirit, but if he failed, Alistair would become the vessel. He had to. He couldn't let Elissa, the intrepid archer he had grown to love, die from the taint of a corrupted soul.

                He wanted to tell her so much, but nothing could pass his lips that couldn't be read in his eyes. She knew. She understood. That was all that was required. She squeezed his hand softly, sighed, and retired to her room, unable to smooth the worry from her forehead.

                Alistair glimpsed a silhouette by the fireplace in Elissa's room before she closed the heavy wooden door and latched it with a soft click. Confident his love had seen the figure, he plodded down the musky corridor to his own room, heavy armor clamoring against his body as a constant reminder of his mortal condition. If there was time, he'd inquire later.

 

~*~

 

                The heir to Ferelden's throne lay in the dark, not bothering to take off the plate armor, though its weight was oppressive. Alistair had removed his helmet, but he wanted to be ready for a darkspawn attack on Redcliffe. He reached along the wall for the hundredth time, stroked the leather-bound hilt of his blade, and let his hand drop along the scabbard propped against the stones. Sighing heavily, he brought his palm back up to rest on his chest, armored fingers tinnily drumming his breastplate.

                A sliver of golden light pushed into his room, flickering with the dancing of the torches outside. Alistair's muscular body tensed, and he reached again for his sword. The door creaked open, and Elissa slipped through the gap, her exotic features amplified by torchlight. She quickly eased the door shut behind her, then crept stealthily to his bedside. Her delicate face belied the apprehension she felt twisting a knot in her stomach.

                "I see you can't sleep, either," Alistair murmured, his voice velvety, not wanting to startle his future queen.

                She exhaled the breath she had held since entering his room, her shoulders relaxing as she glided to the wall and stretched up to slide the torch into the iron sconce. She glanced back at him with a tight, weighted smile.

                Alistair swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat up. "I also saw Morrigan outside your room earlier, and the the look she gave me," he shivered involuntarily, "that was icy even for her. Is something up?"

                Elissa took a step toward him and yearned to embrace him, but thought better and crossed her arms across her leather tunic. "Alistair, we need to talk."

                Alistair's brow furrowed as he studied the floor. "Oh. I guess whatever Morrigan had to say, it's big," he huffed, forcing his aching body from the bed. "This is what I get for becoming king. Everyone always brings you the bad news. So what is it, then? Rats running amok? Cheese supplies run low? I can take it." His dashing features lit up in a playful grin, desperately trying to conceal his worry with humor.

                Humor was lost on Elissa, her mind too distraught to recognize it. She reached to brush his gauntlet with elegant fingers, beseeching. "I love you. You know that, right?"

                Alistair's eyebrows danced above warm eyes; in another situation, it would have been comic. "Could you make it sound more ominous? Tell me, already."

                Elissa's dark eyes strayed to the wall. "What if I told you there was a way to avoid dying tomorrow?"

                Confusion contorted the king's features as he tried to grasp her cryptic inquiries. "You mean with the Archdemon, right?" His eyes narrowed slightly as a thought crossed his mind. "If you mean running away, I can't do that. But you don't mean that, do you? What is this about?"

                "I need you to take part in a magic ritual." Her voice was barely audible, her gaze prying into the shadows, as though she was actually afraid of him. Or afraid of what he might say.

                "Oh? Something Morrigan cooked up, no doubt. What do you need me to do?" His mind ran wild with images of sacrificed animals, symbols created in the dust with strange herbs, and cauldrons boiling over with sickly looking steam tendriling down to expose licking flames in unearthly hues.

                Finally, Elissa's eyes met those of her love. Her soul screamed, anguish pouring from her eyes like blood from a mortal wound. Face hardening into a mask, she straightened up, the waver dropping from her voice. "You need to sleep with her."

                Alistair was surprised by the convincing show she had put on. He laughed as he replied, "Cute. This is payback, right? For all the jokes?" He paused, but her gaze was unfaltering. "But...you're not joking. You're actually serious. Wow, be killed by the Archdemon or sleep with Morrigan. How does someone make that kind of choice?" He paced the few steps from his bed to the wall. This situation was just getting stranger and stranger. "You're not actually asking me this, are you? What kind of ritual is this, anyway?"

                Elissa glanced at the wall again, and back to him. She had killed scores of darkspawn, _why_ was this so _hard_? "I won't lie to you. It will produce a child."

                Alistair's eyebrows shot up, reaching for his hairline. " **WHAT?!** I...I must be hearing things, but are you telling me to **impregnate** Morrigan in some kind of magical sex rite?!" The archer stood rooted against the barrage of his angry rants. "This...child...why would Morrigan want such a thing? Does she want an heir to the throne?"

                Hesitating, Elissa replied, "I think she wants to make some kind of Old God."

                Alistair snapped, "Oh. Well that's so much better, don't you think?" She had never seen him this angry, his light-hearted exterior crumbling with each decibel increase of his voice. "Here I was worried about creating another bastard heir and I didn't even consider that it might also be some dragon...god...whatever!" He closed his eyes, breathed in deeply and let it out slowly, the anger having passed. "Look, even if I was willing to entertain this idea...and I'm not saying I am...is this really what you want me to do? Are you sure...?"

                Was she sure? What kind of question was that? Sure that she wanted her love by her side, and not torn apart by the spirit of a corrupted god? Sure that Ferelden needed a true king on the throne, not some masquerading, backstabbing harpy? Sure that the sun did, in fact, need to continue on its path across the sky? For doubtlessly, if he did not enact the ritual, that great firey orb would drop straight into the sea and plunge her world into cold night for eternity. She swallowed her emotions, looked at him hard, and simply asserted, "You need to trust me."

                The leadership his love exuded awed Alistair, as it always had. He submitted to her. "All right. I do trust you. I'll do it." He groaned and rolled his eyes, unable to stop at least that much distaste from showing. "Where is she? Let's go and get this over with before I...change my mind."

 

~*~

 

                The king shuffled into the room behind the other Grey Warden, his shielded footsteps resounding down the dark corridors in stark contrast to the silent padding of her leather-soled boots. Morrigan stood with her back to them, silhouetted sensually against the orange glow as she contemplated the caress of the flames upon the dried pine logs. Occasionally, they would lick into a pocket of semi-hard sap, the tree's lifeblood spitting and sizzling away as the witch smirked.

                She spoke without turning, her arms crossed defiantly over the scanty red drape that passed as her blouse. "'Twould seem your talk is done?"

                Morrigan had heard Alistair's clanking steps as he approached, but found hope spring inside her breast as he spoke. "Great. So this isn't a dream after all."

                She turned slowly, the edges of her pixieish features softened by the fire. She mustn't be overconfident, mustn't show how much she needs this. Always, her mother's mocking voice loathesomely ringing in her ears. She asked with what she hoped was nonchalance, "What is it to be, then? Has a decision been reached?"

                Elissa spoke for the king. Morrigan smirked; this would not be the last time the archer would have to assume that role. "Alistair has agreed to your...request."

                Morrigan prepared to graciously accept, surprise expertly veiling her face, as Alistair blurted, "Wait. I want to ask about this...child. The one you...want."

                True amusement shone through the witch's eyes. If it were anyone else, she would have assumed a game had begun, but the busty brunette noblewoman before her was not prone to such things. "Interesting. Honesty wouldn't have been my first choice."

                Alistair stammered, "I just want to be sure that you're not goint to use this--against Ferelden. That this bastard child of mine isn't going to show up some year..."

                "Of that you have my word," Morrigan interrupted. Better that they not know her intentions, but at least she could speak truth against this worry.

                Alistair sighed and fidgeted with the edges of his breastplate. "Why don't I feel any better about this? All right. Let's...just get this over with."

                Morrigan smiled at him, that brilliant, lascivious smile that, in years past, had won over many a Chasind man happened upon in the wilds. She studied Alistair's features as if she may reconsider; his boyish charm fusing with the chiseled details under the blonde stubble lent him a singularly desirable quality. "Let us go somewhere more private, Alistair. And believe me when I say you will not hate this quite so much as you believe." One corner of her full lips pulled up, and she eyed him hungrily through thick lashes.

                Alistair uneasily tore his glare from the witch to shoot his queen one last, pleading gaze. Elissa's face softened and she kissed him, breathing strength into him with her love. She tore herself from his embrace and pushed him gently, half-smiling in encouragement. Morrigan watched longingly; what must it be like to have someone who would move heaven and earth to see you safe? Impatiently, she crossed to the door and huffed, stopping until Alistair turned to follow her. She slipped through the hall like a wraith, all dark clothing and skin so pale it glowed, her black gossamer leggings shifting softly against the fringed leather encircling her waist. Alistair trudged after her, his armor making even more noise than usual as he dragged his feet.

 

~*~

 

                Morrigan had insisted on the leather thongs. She explained it was part of the ritual--the male had to be bound. She had tried to help Alistair with his armor, but he shooed her away in irritation. Now he lay nude under the bed's canopy, his arms lashed to the wooden posts of the headboard, watching her curvacious shadow through the billowing of the red silk curtains. She seemed to enjoy taking her time in disrobing, dancing in the chill air that swept through the open window.

                Much to Alistair's dismay, he noticed that he also enjoyed the show. No amount of meditation could help him quiet his steadily stiffening member as Morrigan dropped her garb from her shoulders and hips and released dark, lustrous hair from the messy bun she kept it in. She pulled off her dark leather boots and gauntlet, but left the tiny, tantalizing triangles of undyed suede over her nipples. Without the veil of her top, her orblike breasts seemed bouncier when she approached the foot of the bed, pulling back a curtain with spindly fingers and dangerously long nails.

                Her lupine eyes feasted on the sight of the templar-king, devouring a beautiful, pale body hardened by years of battle and nomadic living, merit proved by the many scars risen on his glistening skin. Though he was a dolt and an irritation while traveling, she had long harbored feelings of lust for him. Could Riordan have claimed this job? Most likely, yes, but Elissa need not know. Riordan did not hold quite the same appeal for Morrigan as did this emblem of purity and honor. Alistair was a prize as much as he was a sacrifice.

                Morrigan's creamy legs slid onto the bed as she bent over Alistair, her body moving fluidly towards him. Alistair wondered again why he had agreed to this--if not for the darkspawn threat, Morrigan would have been his nemesis, he was sure of it. He backed uneasily until his shoulders hit the headboard, the wooden panel gently knocking the stone wall behind. Morrigan snickered, reflections from the wall sconce dancing below her painted eyelids.

                As the witch drew nearer, Alistair clenched his jaw. Morrigan feigned injury, pouting, "There there, my king, I have no intentions to harm you. Relax and try to enjoy yourself." She smiled broadly, and Alistair saw only teeth. Still, it would be much less painful if he did try to relax. Realizing he was clutching the top of the headboard, he let go and eased himself back down onto the pillows.

                Morrigan reached down to gingerly pat his side, slender fingers lingering over the tight muscle. Her other hand curled around something hidden against her palm. She sat back on her heels and sprinkled a fine, pungent dust across Alistair's thighs and abdomen, chanting low with eyes closed as she did so. His eyebrow quirked, but he otherwise gave no notice, having been accustomed to her strange ways for y ears. "Elfroot," she soothed. "For virility."

                "There is a part of the ritual I neglected to mention to your dear betrothed. The child must be conceived under duress. If not for this, all of our preparations will be for naught. I do hope you understand it is simply the demands of the spell, nothing more," the temptress reassured him.

                "Wait, what kind of duress are we talking about? I'm already bound and barely willing to participate in this...ritual," Alistair protested. He tried the leather holding his arms, but it held fast.

                "Let us say that for the child's pull to work properly, there must be pain with the pleasure. I do not wish to overly upset Your Majesty. If it becomes too much, say the word and my actions shall cease."

                Incredulous, Alistair snorted and resigned himself to this turn of events. He had promised Elissa he would see this through, regardless of the seductress's deceit.

                Morrigan's nails, already long and formidable, grew into the claws of a beast before his eyes. "Knowledge of shapeshifting is not limited to the entire body all at once. With concentration, I can change one portion of my body at a time." That wicked grin slid along her lips.

                "You have such a handsome array of scars across your body, Alistair. I would like to add my contribution to the canvas," she muttered as she pressed her claws against his side. His ribs heaved with adrenaline, each breath digging the tiny daggers slightly under the skin. Her face twisted in sadistic pleasure as she plunged two of her fingers through the soft flesh and curled them into the deliciously hard muscle underneath.

                Alistair gasped sharply, his body stiffening at the sudden sensation of pain. To his dismay, a warm jolt also shot from Morrigan's claws straight to his groin. Later, he would tell himself it was a spell she enchanted him with. That he didn't really enjoy the pain. Morrigan was pleased with his self-restraint. She did not want the entire castle awakened.

                Removing her claws, Morrigan dragged beads of blood lightly across Alistair's abdomen, slicing periodically through the skin until red fluid welled into the cuts. Alistair shut his eyes and clenched his jaw, trying to remove himself to a better place, trying to ignore the fact that this, of all things, this _atrocity_ was fanning his desire. The Revered Mother would die on the spot if she knew one of her templars could stray so far.

                Morrigan noticed Alistair's growing lust and chose to ignore it. If the king was prone to a little pain with his rutting, all the better for her. She worried that goading him now would disrupt the whole ritual, and that would simply not do.

                Swinging a leg across Alistair's lap, the witch straddled her quarry, her smooth skin cool against his inflamed thighs. She bent down to kiss lightly across his collarbone, her claws raking down his sides and across his arms. With each pull of those sharpened nails, his shaft became a little more engorged, his breath a little harder to catch. Maker curse her, but she seemed to know exactly how to unravel him without once asking.

                The kisses on his chest turned to bites, and he wondered if her teeth had also taken on animal qualities. He felt fingers wrap around his erection, slowly massaging the pliant skin. Her teeth flashed up and she bit him on the throat, holding on for mere moments that felt like days. She slid down onto his shaft, grunting and releasing his neck as the head pushed into her slick sheath.

                She straightened up atop the templar, pressing her hands against his chest. All traces of playfulness vanished from her eyes and lips, she rode him silently, staring hard into his eyes as she concentrated on maintaining the ritual. The rhythmic motion of her body caused her nipples to peek at intervals from the web of suede across her chest. Alistair, bleeding, bruised, and thoroughly conquered, was powerless to do anything but watch the eerie spectacle.

                Occasionally, Morrigan would slow her rhythm to mumble foreign words or inscribe some sign into the air with a finger. She felt unable to truly let herself go and enjoy the prudish man she had bedded. Curse her sorceress mother for tasking her with this--this is not how she wished to remember the one chance she had to corrupt the unsullied king.

                Alistair, assaulted by wave after wave of mediocrity, a true crime after the evening's strong start, chewed on his lip and debated whether to say anything to Morrigan. _What was it Elissa said so long ago? I should stick up for myself more?_ he pondered. _I really did agree to this ritual, didn't I? Morrigan must think me a complete fool, betraying my trust and abusing my good will. I am the king after all. It's time I took charge of my kingly duties._ Resolve had steeled his chiseled features.

                "Morrigan."

                The sharp strength of his voice removed her from her trance, cutting her concentration momentarily. Her eyes focused on him.

                "Morrigan, untie me," he commanded.

                She began to protest, "But the ritual!"

                "No, Morrigan. I can tell this isn't working; something has gone wrong. Untie me."

                Swayed by shock into doing his bidding, the witch released his wrists from the leather and sat back across his hips, waiting to see what he would do. She wanted to flee--after her immeasurable experience and years spent studying this spell, the embarrassment broke something within her.

                "I know you say that binding is important to completing what has turned out to be a very complex and difficult ritual," he began cautiously, "but we will try it without the ties." Strong arms lifted her up and set her alongside him. "Maybe there is more than one way to make this work," he prayed aloud to the Maker. He did not want to die tomorrow; he did not want this infidelity to be in vain.

                Blood seeped still from his wounds. He knelt on the bed and reached for Morrigan, calloused fingers closing around her arm and twisting her until her back was to him, his torrid breath quivering against her silken flesh. She wanted to protest, to stare in awe, to decipher where she went wrong. She did none of these. Enthralled by the power Alistair had finally slipped into, she acquiesced with mild amusement traced upon her lips.

                Wordlessly, the templar grasped her sinewy waist and pulled her back until his chest heaved against her shoulderblades. He pushed between her shoulders with the heel of one hand, forcing her down until she braced her palms against the mattress.

                Remembering how she had teased him with those claws, he slid a rough palm over her velvet folds, stopping with his fingers pressed against her entrance. She trembled in anticipation and glanced over her shoulder at him, eyes rolling back as he plunged two fingers deep inside of her. He hooked his fingers around and yanked them from her body, a sharp cry forcing itself from her throat.

                Grabbing himself with one hand and her hip with the other, he immersed his manhood within her wetness and groaned as she gasped. He reached up to take hold of her other hip and plowed into her forcefully, passion escaping his lips. Morrigan struggled to overcome the shock of Alistair's blossom into kingship through feverish, fleeting thoughts. Her eyes refused to focus, so she shut them and gave herself to the tactile experience.

                Alistair rammed into the witch all the contempt he held for apostates, all the angst he harbored growing up a bastard in Arl Eamon's court. He filled her with the sorrow he felt at losing everyone close to him, the feelings of inadequacy from never having a place in the world. A new strength surged through him as he hammered his feelings of hatred, uncertainty, and neglect into Morrigan. Floods of emotions tore through her, blazing across her eyes in full color. Each feeling left an indelible mark upon her apathetic soul.

                Sensory overload began to overtake the temptress as she bucked and writhed against Alistair's groin, moans cascading from her mouth. The walls of her inner sanctum fluttered, coaxing the templar to release. He thrust into her with the glory of a true king, spilling his seed deep within. Fingers dug hard into her hips, the skin bloomed with bruises as he slouched and his hands rooted on the mattress.

                Panting, Morrigan rolled onto her back, her composure thoroughly shaken. Who was this man, whom she had spent years traveling with and learning to despise? The Alistair she knew seemed to have been bled out by her barbed touch. As she lay before him, a tired glare sweeping her body, she felt a pang deep in her belly. She knew the ritual had worked, the spell had taken hold. She was now with child, and tomorrow, permeated with the essence of the slain Archdemon, that child would be a god.


End file.
